ANNA HUTCHINSON'S CURSE.
The savage lifted Abigail from the earth where she had fallen, and went
on with kindling excitement.
"No, her children were not all slain. Two escaped--one, a young girl
pale as the first cherry blossoms, with hair like the sunshine in
August. The other was a babe, four weeks old, which this brave woman
took from her bosom just before the tomahawk cleft her brain. These
children were carried into the forest, passed from tribe to tribe, till
the eldest grew to womanhood. But she remembered her mother, and the
horrible scene of her murder, while she knew nothing of the persecutions
that drove that mother among the Indians, when the chiefs were on the
war-path. So she never took kindly to the tribe, but always pined for a
sight of her own people. At last she fled, carrying the child with her,
and came here to the village of Salem."
"Here, here--great heavens, can this be!"
"But they would not let the child of Anna Hutchinson rest; she also
dared to think for herself. She was also arraigned before the magnates
of the church. Like Anna Hutchinson, her fair shoulders were reddened
with stripes. The little child, whom she loved better than her own life,
was torn from her arms. Like a wounded deer, they sent her into the
wilderness, alone, alone--bleeding at every step, uttering moans with
every breath."
"Oh, this is terrible!" cried Abigail, pressing both hands to her heart.
The Indian took no heed of her anguish, but went on:
"All day and all night long she wandered through the tangled
undergrowth, feeding upon the honeysuckle, apples, and wild plums, that
grew in her path, calling in despair on the name of her little sister,
and praying to her God that she might be so happy as to die. For days
and nights she toiled on with only one object--to get farther and
farther from the people of her race. As a wounded deer pants for
spring-water, she longed for the wigwams and the savage love from which
she had fled less than a year before.
"But she was in the deep wilderness now, with no track to guide her
way--no hope, nothing but her despair. She could not even cry aloud to
the Great Spirit, for his face was hidden. Pale and hungry, with the
shoes dropping from her feet, her poor hands torn with the thorns that
sought her out as human hate had done, this poor girl wandered on and
on, growing fainter and paler each moment. At last she sank down,
breathless and exhausted, with great tears rolling slowly from beneath
her closed lashes, and the blue of hunger settling around her mouth."
Here Abigail's sobs broke in upon the narrative. The Indian waved his
hand with a gesture that silenced this outbreak, and went on:
"The place where she fell was a deep ravine; mountains towered on either
side, and rocks, covered with thick mosses, choked it up.
"Upon a shelf of these rocks, where the buck-horn moss crackled and
broke beneath her, she lay panting for life. Hemlock and pine branches
stooped together and shut out the sun--not a glimpse of the blue sky,
not a gleam of the golden light that deluged the tree-tops, came to that
dark ravine.
"There the young girl laid herself down to die--hopeless, speechless,
alone! A wolf, half-way up the ravine, gave out a howl. She did not move
or open her eyes. It might have torn at her garments and found no
resistance. A glittering snake lay coiled on the flat of a rock close
by, with its tail erect and its crest in the air, but, more merciful
than the men who had driven her forth, it shook the rattles of ten years
in gentle warning, uncoiled itself lazily, and, gliding over the moss
within half a yard of her feet, crept into its hole. She saw the serpent
through her half-shut eyes, without a wish to stir. Why not death in
that shape as well as another?
"Then the thoughts died in her brain, and the breath sank to a quiver on
her blue lips. A stillness like the grave crept over her. She did not
hear it, but a footstep sounded on the side of the ravine. A leap from
rock to rock--and an Indian in his war garments stood twenty feet above
the young girl, looking down upon her. He turned aside, seized a sapling
which bent to his weight like a bow, and swung himself downward upon the
rock.
"She did not stir. The lashes lay motionless on her cold cheeks. There
was no breath on those lips. The young Indian gathered the pale creature
in his arms, and strove to warm her against his own brave heart. But it
was of no avail. Then he thought of the flask of fire-water in his
bosom, and forced a few drops through those pale lips--a shiver and a
deep sigh--the lashes unclose, and the deathly eyes look into his.
"The chief laid her softly down, took a corn-cake from the pouch at his
side, and fed her with the crumbs, as if she had been a bird. After the
first morsel she grew eager and craving, but the chief was no common
savage. He knew that enough would be death, and kept the food in his own
grasp, pacifying her with gentle words.
"The daughter of Anna Hutchinson understood his language; her great
mournful eyes had opened upon him like those of a wounded doe; now they
brightened with gratitude, and tears came stealing up, one by one, till
they overflowed.
"That day the maiden rested in the ravine, for the spot seemed like
heaven to her then. The chief gathered green moss fleeces from the other
rocks and heaped a couch, softer than velvet, upon which she slept
sweetly, beneath the shelter of his blanket. All night long the chief
sat guarding her slumbers. To him she was a gift from the Great Spirit,
who had wrought the sunlight in her golden hair.
"When the morning broke, he took his rifle and shot a bird for her
breakfast; for the danger was over, and she might fare sumptuously now.
Striking sparks from his flint, he built a fire in the ravine, and
roasted the game, serving it up daintily on the last corn-cake left in
his pouch. Then he found a spring gushing from under a rock, and brought
her a draught of sparkling water, in a cup formed of leaves which he
made with a single twist of the hand. The maiden smiled upon him in her
sweet thankfulness, and, though a brave chief, he forgot the war-path
which his tribe was pursuing without a leader. It was a pleasant
exchange for the maiden, from the cart wheel and the white man's lash."
"Oh, it was paradise!" murmured Abigail, with tears in her eyes.
"Yes, it was paradise. But a true brave turns resolutely from the wigwam
to the council. The young chief could not remain forever in the ravine,
for he was the head of a great nation, and the warriors waited for him
on the war-path. The next moon, Philip, the young king of the
Pomperoags, had given the maiden a name that he loved well--which
signified wounded bird, and, with this name, he led her to the royal
lodge, with her embroidered robes sweeping the earth, and crowned like a
princess."
"And he loved her always, this savage king?" said Abigail, smiling
through her tears.
"Yes, he loved her, and her only, all the days of his life. It was a
regal marriage, royally fulfilled. For a time Anna Hutchinson's curse
slept."
"Oh, me! I grow cold again--that curse!" cried Abigail.